fic: bravura (a midsummer night’s dream: bottom/quince, g)
I have no excuse for this pairing. Sorry. And I never seem to set these things in the right period, but whatever. I wanted a trilby.
bravura
Bottom/Quince, G, ~1300 words
“Bottom’s just the sort of chap who draws attention to himself”
A new year, a new play.
The same old Mechanicals, though. Quince pushes his glasses up his nose, and looks at his friends, all sat on the floor of their rehearsal space, talking quietly between themselves. It’s the run of the mill, small talk sort of conversation. For some of them, it has been a while. Feels like longer for some than others, though, Quince imagines. The past few months… well, they have dragged.
Quince looks up at bottom, who he sees standing slightly apart from where everyone else is sitting, holding his trilby between his left hand and his waist, the other hand slid halfway into his trouser pocket. He stands tall, his chest puffed out in that grand sort of way, just the way that he did last year, which… well, of course. There is no real reason for him to stand any differently, so it’s a silly sort of observation. He’s grown a moustache, though, Quince notes; that’s new. It’s clearly well cared for. It makes him look older.
“Good afternoon, Bottom,” Quince says, quietly. He suspects he’s the first to address Bottom, and for some reason Bottom hasn’t really made a point of making his presence thoroughly known by all today. A quiet day, perhaps. It doesn’t make much of a difference anyway; Bottom’s just the sort of chap who draws attention to himself, like that, always has been. Everyone is fully aware that he’s there.
“Peter, my boy!” Bottom says, and Quince shrinks into himself. He hasn’t been a boy in a long time, but suddenly feels it under the stare of Bottom’s beady black eyes, and the knowledge that everybody else will be looking at them now. Bottom talks very loudly; Quince had almost forgotten.
Bottom’s hand darts out of his pocket and grabs Quince’s in a enthusiastic handshake. Quince feels very aware of his own palms. They are rough, carpenter’s hands, just one of the tells that he still has to work a craftsman’s job. He longs for soft hands, hands that spout verse from their fingertips, hands that wave to an adoring audience, moved to a standing ovation from the power of his epilogues. But his hands are calloused and dry.
“Still writing, then?” Bottom asks.
Quince shrugs instinctively. “Well, yes,” he says. “When I’m able.”
Bottom nudges his fist into Quince’s shoulder, light, friendly, his hand now released from Quince's.
“Tell you what, Peter, lad,” he begins, his expression somewhat serious, eyebrows slightly raised, “I’ve had a crack at it myself. Trickier than you would think, eh? I call it Bottom’s Dream.”
Quince’s stomach sinks. He had hoped that some things might be different this year-at least didn’t think that Bottom would be at it already, this strange struggle for power he always had going on.
“Sorry, Bottom, but we’ve already got… I mean to say, I already wrote something for the Mechanicals to, um...”
“Goodness, no, I didn’t mean that at all. I was just telling you.”
Quince is taken aback. “Oh,” he says, dumbly, hopes Bottom isn’t offended, but then, this is Bottom. “I could… I could have a read of it, if you wanted.”
Bottom smiles sideways, his new moustache moving with his face. “That’s awfully kind of you, but I couldn’t have that.”
“Oh?” Apparently Quince is not very verbose today. It feels vaguely like someone has just tripped him up, though. If even Bottom, good old Bottom, Bottom who is always kind, even if he wanted all the attention on himself, does not think anything of his playwright’s skills...
Quince rubs one palm over the other.
“Well,” Bottom says. “It matters what you would think, doesn’t it, Quince?”
Quince’s insides jump. He’s not sure quite which is better: the compliment, or the fact Bottom called him Quince, and not Peter. Quince was Bottom’s equal. Peter was someone Bottom could look down at.
“Oh.”
;;
The performance is a quiet one. It’s not for nobles and newlyweds, so maybe it’s a step backwards from where they were last year, but it’s a much more solid performance, even if Quince cringes at the clunkier parts of his own writing, and the others are still greatly cast in Bottom’s shadow. What can Quince say, though? Bottom steals a show. Drags it by its ankles if he has to, but he makes it his, one way or another.
Bottom throws an arm around Quince’s shoulder; Quince can smell the ale, potent, that Bottom clutches in his hand, sloshing around the glass, right up close to his face.
“Bravo, gentlemen!” he shouts, and the other Mechanicals cheer, in a vaguely drunken haze. “An artistic triumph, friends!” he continues, and then pulls his arm away to turn towards Quince, holds his glass higher, above his head. “To Quince! To Peter Quince, playwright extraordinaire!”
“To Quince!” Snug shouts, in response, and then the others all follow suit, slightly out of unison, such that they all just sound like a rabble of drunk men.
“Speech!” Flute commands, pointing at Quince.
Quince laughs quietly. “I hardly think-” he begins to protest, but is interrupted by Snug.
“In eight iambic feet!”
Bottom guffaws heartily, nudges Snug in the arm with his elbow. “Be quiet and have another ale!” he says to no one in particular. “I can see far too well. Something must be done!”
Soon enough, another ale is pressed into Quince’s hands, and they all end up slouched in chairs.
“To soft hands...” Quince murmurs to the last drop of ale in his glass.
Bottom darts upright clumsily. The chair tilts threateningly, before he is able to balance it out again. “You mean a lady? Is there a lady on whose hands you reflect?” he slurs.
Quince shakes his head.
“A gentleman?”
Quince shakes his head again. There is a loud “hur hur” from Starveling.
“My hands,” he says. “One day, they’ll be soft.”
Bottom snorts. “Piffle, man! Soft hands are for ladies! I had a lady once, very soft hands, very nice, soft all over. Softer for my not having been soft, you see. I... was an ass. Rough as an ass, and she… she was silk cushions, Quince. You want a silk cushion lady for your rough hands.”
“Oh?” Quince doesn’t know if he quite believes in this silken lady or not. Bottom was always full of tales, and Quince is sure that was one that would have merited mentioning. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
“Titania,” Bottom seems to sigh, although Quince can’t be sure what he says, at all, really.
;;
They are clearing out the rehearsal space of the many items that have collected there over the course of their occupation of it, some of them seemingly inexplicable, like a collection of pressed petals that don’t seem to belong to anyone. Quince realises it may well be another year before he sees any of them again.
“Do you know what the next epic will be then, Quince?”
Quince smiles at Bottom, and shakes his head.
“No ideas yet? A blank slate?” Bottom says, putting down the pile of scripts that he had gathered together. “Might I suggest... a moustached detective, charming fellow, goes around solving terrible crimes, that sort of thing. Goes by the name of Dick Nottom, woos this lady along the way, who’s some sort of beautiful royal, but her father doesn’t approve, and the detective has to win him over through his... detecting…”
Bottom stands tall, hand on his hips, looking into the middle distance as he talks.
Quince laughs. “Perhaps, Bottom. Perhaps.”
The last of the detritus is cleared away. Quince’s hand brushes against Bottom’s for a moment, fleetingly, but it’s enough. Bottom’s hands are cold, but soft. Quince supposes they have to be, for a weaver.
bravura
Bottom/Quince, G, ~1300 words
“Bottom’s just the sort of chap who draws attention to himself”
A new year, a new play.
The same old Mechanicals, though. Quince pushes his glasses up his nose, and looks at his friends, all sat on the floor of their rehearsal space, talking quietly between themselves. It’s the run of the mill, small talk sort of conversation. For some of them, it has been a while. Feels like longer for some than others, though, Quince imagines. The past few months… well, they have dragged.
Quince looks up at bottom, who he sees standing slightly apart from where everyone else is sitting, holding his trilby between his left hand and his waist, the other hand slid halfway into his trouser pocket. He stands tall, his chest puffed out in that grand sort of way, just the way that he did last year, which… well, of course. There is no real reason for him to stand any differently, so it’s a silly sort of observation. He’s grown a moustache, though, Quince notes; that’s new. It’s clearly well cared for. It makes him look older.
“Good afternoon, Bottom,” Quince says, quietly. He suspects he’s the first to address Bottom, and for some reason Bottom hasn’t really made a point of making his presence thoroughly known by all today. A quiet day, perhaps. It doesn’t make much of a difference anyway; Bottom’s just the sort of chap who draws attention to himself, like that, always has been. Everyone is fully aware that he’s there.
“Peter, my boy!” Bottom says, and Quince shrinks into himself. He hasn’t been a boy in a long time, but suddenly feels it under the stare of Bottom’s beady black eyes, and the knowledge that everybody else will be looking at them now. Bottom talks very loudly; Quince had almost forgotten.
Bottom’s hand darts out of his pocket and grabs Quince’s in a enthusiastic handshake. Quince feels very aware of his own palms. They are rough, carpenter’s hands, just one of the tells that he still has to work a craftsman’s job. He longs for soft hands, hands that spout verse from their fingertips, hands that wave to an adoring audience, moved to a standing ovation from the power of his epilogues. But his hands are calloused and dry.
“Still writing, then?” Bottom asks.
Quince shrugs instinctively. “Well, yes,” he says. “When I’m able.”
Bottom nudges his fist into Quince’s shoulder, light, friendly, his hand now released from Quince's.
“Tell you what, Peter, lad,” he begins, his expression somewhat serious, eyebrows slightly raised, “I’ve had a crack at it myself. Trickier than you would think, eh? I call it Bottom’s Dream.”
Quince’s stomach sinks. He had hoped that some things might be different this year-at least didn’t think that Bottom would be at it already, this strange struggle for power he always had going on.
“Sorry, Bottom, but we’ve already got… I mean to say, I already wrote something for the Mechanicals to, um...”
“Goodness, no, I didn’t mean that at all. I was just telling you.”
Quince is taken aback. “Oh,” he says, dumbly, hopes Bottom isn’t offended, but then, this is Bottom. “I could… I could have a read of it, if you wanted.”
Bottom smiles sideways, his new moustache moving with his face. “That’s awfully kind of you, but I couldn’t have that.”
“Oh?” Apparently Quince is not very verbose today. It feels vaguely like someone has just tripped him up, though. If even Bottom, good old Bottom, Bottom who is always kind, even if he wanted all the attention on himself, does not think anything of his playwright’s skills...
Quince rubs one palm over the other.
“Well,” Bottom says. “It matters what you would think, doesn’t it, Quince?”
Quince’s insides jump. He’s not sure quite which is better: the compliment, or the fact Bottom called him Quince, and not Peter. Quince was Bottom’s equal. Peter was someone Bottom could look down at.
“Oh.”
;;
The performance is a quiet one. It’s not for nobles and newlyweds, so maybe it’s a step backwards from where they were last year, but it’s a much more solid performance, even if Quince cringes at the clunkier parts of his own writing, and the others are still greatly cast in Bottom’s shadow. What can Quince say, though? Bottom steals a show. Drags it by its ankles if he has to, but he makes it his, one way or another.
Bottom throws an arm around Quince’s shoulder; Quince can smell the ale, potent, that Bottom clutches in his hand, sloshing around the glass, right up close to his face.
“Bravo, gentlemen!” he shouts, and the other Mechanicals cheer, in a vaguely drunken haze. “An artistic triumph, friends!” he continues, and then pulls his arm away to turn towards Quince, holds his glass higher, above his head. “To Quince! To Peter Quince, playwright extraordinaire!”
“To Quince!” Snug shouts, in response, and then the others all follow suit, slightly out of unison, such that they all just sound like a rabble of drunk men.
“Speech!” Flute commands, pointing at Quince.
Quince laughs quietly. “I hardly think-” he begins to protest, but is interrupted by Snug.
“In eight iambic feet!”
Bottom guffaws heartily, nudges Snug in the arm with his elbow. “Be quiet and have another ale!” he says to no one in particular. “I can see far too well. Something must be done!”
Soon enough, another ale is pressed into Quince’s hands, and they all end up slouched in chairs.
“To soft hands...” Quince murmurs to the last drop of ale in his glass.
Bottom darts upright clumsily. The chair tilts threateningly, before he is able to balance it out again. “You mean a lady? Is there a lady on whose hands you reflect?” he slurs.
Quince shakes his head.
“A gentleman?”
Quince shakes his head again. There is a loud “hur hur” from Starveling.
“My hands,” he says. “One day, they’ll be soft.”
Bottom snorts. “Piffle, man! Soft hands are for ladies! I had a lady once, very soft hands, very nice, soft all over. Softer for my not having been soft, you see. I... was an ass. Rough as an ass, and she… she was silk cushions, Quince. You want a silk cushion lady for your rough hands.”
“Oh?” Quince doesn’t know if he quite believes in this silken lady or not. Bottom was always full of tales, and Quince is sure that was one that would have merited mentioning. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
“Titania,” Bottom seems to sigh, although Quince can’t be sure what he says, at all, really.
;;
They are clearing out the rehearsal space of the many items that have collected there over the course of their occupation of it, some of them seemingly inexplicable, like a collection of pressed petals that don’t seem to belong to anyone. Quince realises it may well be another year before he sees any of them again.
“Do you know what the next epic will be then, Quince?”
Quince smiles at Bottom, and shakes his head.
“No ideas yet? A blank slate?” Bottom says, putting down the pile of scripts that he had gathered together. “Might I suggest... a moustached detective, charming fellow, goes around solving terrible crimes, that sort of thing. Goes by the name of Dick Nottom, woos this lady along the way, who’s some sort of beautiful royal, but her father doesn’t approve, and the detective has to win him over through his... detecting…”
Bottom stands tall, hand on his hips, looking into the middle distance as he talks.
Quince laughs. “Perhaps, Bottom. Perhaps.”
The last of the detritus is cleared away. Quince’s hand brushes against Bottom’s for a moment, fleetingly, but it’s enough. Bottom’s hands are cold, but soft. Quince supposes they have to be, for a weaver.